


The Coefficient of Friction

by daftfear



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Language, M/M, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Moirai Islands, Rimming, Top Draco, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 00:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3548984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daftfear/pseuds/daftfear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over, the Death Eater trials are complete, life in the wizarding world is finally getting back to normal, and Harry Potter is restless. Unsure of what he really wants and growing increasingly confused in his personal life, Harry decides to take a holiday—alone—to clear his mind and find himself. He books a trip to a wizarding resort, expecting to be the lone guest, only to find out Draco Malfoy will be there as well. Falling back on old habits, Harry determines Malfoy must be up to something. In his search to uncover Malfoy’s secrets, Harry inadvertently does what he had meant to all along—find himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coefficient of Friction

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun with this fic and tried to keep as close to the prompt as possible. As soon as I read it, it evoked a set of very vivid images, so thank you to the prompter, LeontinaBowie! Endless thanks to my beta, Susannah_wilde, for all her help and fantastic work. All remaining mistakes, of course, are mine. And given how nervous I was about this, her words of encouragement also mean the world to me. Finally, thanks to the mods for running this awesome fest and putting up with my silly questions. :)
> 
>  **Small note:** The Greek letter _M_ or μ represents, in Physics, the coefficient of friction, which “describes the ratio of the force of friction between two bodies and the force pressing them together.” (Wikipedia)

He woke to a shower of light permeating the threadbare curtains. Blinking sleepily, Harry rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand. Breath came heavy and even, as though he was still asleep, as he stared at the ancient, ineffective curtains. Nothing in this house was useful anymore, it seemed. Not even its resident house-elf was quite what he used to be.

Kreacher hobbled here and there, doing his best to fulfil Harry’s instructions—when Harry thought to give him some—but he was quite on in years, and he forgot things. Still, he remained in Grimmauld Place no matter what Harry said. He’d offered to free Kreacher, to let him retire, so-to-speak, but Kreacher had reacted…strongly. 

Three weeks of alternate sobbing and screaming later, Harry decided never to mention clothes again and now resorted to doing his own laundry lest Kreacher misapprehend him. 

Crinkling his nose, Harry’s eyes fell on the large pile of dirty laundry in the corner. Tetchy House-Elves were only one of the reasons Harry had decided he needed to get away for a while, and there were plenty more. He catalogued the list in his mind as he dragged himself out of Sirius’s old bed. Even now, years later, he couldn’t think of it as anything else. Grimmauld Place belonged to him—no other Blacks seemed interested in the claim—but it would always be Sirius’s house. 

Harry sorted through some of the laundry to find the least offensive items and put them on. As he tugged on his socks, a loud pop surprised him. In a swift jump-turn, Harry held his wand aloft and pointed directly at Ron’s chest. 

“Blimey, mate, you need to learn to relax,” Ron said with a laugh. Harry sighed and lowered his wand, returning to pull his remaining sock up. “Greeting guests at wand-point is what some might call impolite.”

“And Apparating into people’s bedrooms without warning?” Harry asked, collapsing back onto the bed. It was too early.

“Can’t blame me,” Ron said with a sheepish grin. “I’ve come with a solemn mission.” Harry pushed himself up on his elbows and shot Ron a look. “This is your birthday wake-up call. Care of Mum.”

“I was already awake,” Harry said, and glancing at the clock, added, “she wanted me up at half-seven? On my birthday?”

Ron shrugged and sniffed the air. Noticing the laundry, he said, “You know House-Elves do laundry, yeah?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Why didn’t Ginny come?” Harry asked, his voice tightening. He looked away from Ron as he asked, pretending to clean his glasses on his shirt.

“Already getting ready for tonight,” Ron said, and Harry exhaled in silent relief. “Girls, y’know? Hermione’s busy at the Ministry this morning, so I s’pose it’s just as bad. Can’t even take a day off for her fiancé.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “How is my birthday anything to do with you?” 

“I took the day off, didn’t I?” he said. “In support! That’s how good a mate I am.”

Harry laughed and got his wand. “We’re heading over then, I reckon?”

Ron hesitated. “Well, we don’t have to. I mean, there are important things to be done, and the party’s not ‘til later. Mum will understand if we’re delayed for important—er—Auror reasons.”

“Been driving you mad with the preparations, has she?” 

Ron chuckled. “You have no idea.”

“Fancy a game, then?” Harry asked. 

Ron led the way to the sitting room as Harry glanced at the drawer next to the bed. He’d stored all the documents for his trip there and felt a pang of guilt for not letting Ron in on his plan. 

_He’ll know soon enough._

***

The candle flames danced in time with the laughter from around the table. The low light lent a glow to those gathered, and as Teddy wriggled and giggled in Harry’s arms, he thought maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe everything he needed was right there in front of him.

“Happy birthday, Harry dear,” Mrs Weasley said as she placed the homemade cake in front of him. Chocolate with toffee filling, the cake reminded him of that very first one he’d ever been given—that night on the rock, when Hagrid changed his life.

Ten years ago.

“C’mon, mate, blow out the candles!” Ron nudged, and Harry laughed as he did, his worries evaporating. These people were his family; they loved him.

“What’d yeh wish for?” Seamus asked. 

“He can’t say, idiot,” Ginny said. “Or it won’t come true.”

Seamus waggled his eyebrows. “Hoping for something specific, are we? Have the wedding preparations infected you?”

Ginny swatted at him, and Harry’s cheeks burned. His stomach churned slightly as he busied himself with the cake. Ginny wore a green dress meant to match Harry’s eyes. It made her skin bright and her hair shine. But every time he looked at her, he felt slightly ill.

“Tuck in, everyone,” Mrs Weasley said, distributing slices. 

“How is the planning coming, Hermione?” Angelina asked. 

Hermione, swallowing her mouthful of cake, sighed. “They’re coming along. We’ve got most of the details organised, but we still don’t have the cake or the musicians sorted. And my dress, well…”

“It’s mental, you trying to plan a wedding and do everything you do at work,” Angelina said. “I don’t know how you manage.”

Hermione glowed. “Well, I’ve got lots of help. Ginny and Fleur, and Molly, of course. And Ron is doing his fair share.” 

“We do know somezhing about planning a wedding in stressful times, after all,” Fleur added, looking fondly at Bill. 

Teddy grabbed fistfuls of cake and smeared his face as he ate them. Harry laughed and wiped where he could, getting in whatever bites he could in between. Teddy looked up at him, his mousy brown hair turning inky black, his eyes turning green. Harry nuzzled his nose as the conversation turned to him.

“So what’s next for you, then, Harry?” Bill asked. “Going to make it official with the Auror Department?”

Harry hesitated, swallowing hard.

“Er, well, not just yet,” he said. Everyone looked up at once, a question mark on each of their faces. Harry wished he’d told Ron and Hermione earlier, now he was faced with so many quizzical looks. “I’m going to take some time off, actually. I’m—I’m going away.”

Ginny dropped her fork and scrambled to pick it up again. Ron glanced back and forth between her and Harry.

“Wha’d’you mean?” he asked. “Going away where?”

Harry swallowed the dryness in his throat. “Er, well, I’m going on holiday. I’ve never really had one and now the trials are over—well, I thought I’d take some time to relax.”

The mood at the table eased slightly.

“Good on you, Harry,” Hagrid said from his place near the corner—the only spot large enough to fit him. “Deserve some time fer yehrself.”

Harry smiled at him.

“Have you thought about where?” Angelina asked. “There are so many places I’d like to go; I don’t know how I’d choose.”

“France is beautiful zhis time of year,” Fleur added.

“When were you planning to go? Have you researched at all?” Hermione asked.

“Er—I’m going to Greece. There’s a resort on a set of small islands there—the Moirai Islands—protected from Muggles. The brochure said it’s quite private, so I should have loads of space to myself.”

“You’re going alone?” Neville asked. “You’ve got to be careful, travelling alone. But I suppose you can take care of yourself better than most.” He offered Harry a smile, which Harry returned.

“I’ve never heard of the Moirai Islands,” Hermione said, seeming somewhat put out.

“They’re protected, like I said. A wizarding family bought them centuries ago and erased them from Muggle history to make a travel haven for witches and wizards. Back during the times of the Inquisition and all that.”

“So you have done research,” Hermione said, pleased.

“When are you leaving? Have you booked?” 

Harry struggled with Teddy for a moment, who was intent on more cake, and then said, “I have actually. I leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Hermione said, her eyes wide. “How long are you staying? You will be back—”

“I’ll be back for the wedding, Hermione,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I wouldn’t miss that for the world.” 

“It’s just a bit short notice, mate,” Ron said, massaging the back of his neck. 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said, feeling sheepish for not having told them all sooner. He didn’t know what he’d been worried about. 

“Well, I wish you’d’ve told us earlier, but have a great time anyway, yeah?” Ron said. “I think we all agree you deserve some time to yourself.”

Harry grinned. Then he noticed someone was missing from the table. Ginny was gone.

***

Harry knocked at the door to Ginny’s room, heart in his throat, pounding so loudly he could barely hear her answer.

“What?” 

Swallowing hard, he slid open the door and stepped inside. “Gin? You all right?”

She looked up at him, the brightness in her skin gone. She wasn’t crying but looked as though she could have been. Her mouth was pulled down toward her jawline, hard and unyielding. Harry felt the knot in his stomach tighten.

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t understand,” he said, unsure what to do with his arms or hands or anything. She sat on her bed, and though the effort she put into her appearance suggested she might have wanted to invite him to it, her body language told him to stay away. He pushed away the flash of relief and admonished himself for it. She was hurt and he’d hurt her. He had to fix that.

“You didn’t tell me,” she said. “You didn’t tell me you were thinking about it, or that you’d picked a place, or that you’d booked it. You didn’t even tell me before telling everyone else. You didn’t ask me to come along—”

“D-d’you want to?” he asked, acting before thinking. He knew that was what she wanted to hear, though it wasn’t what he wanted to happen. She gave him a hard look.

“Even if I did, I couldn’t now,” she said. “I’ve got tryouts for the Holyhead Harpies in three days. I’ve got to train. You know that. I think you knew that all along and that’s why you’re leaving tomorrow. So I can’t come.”

Harry reached out to her, but his fingers fell short. “Gin, no. That’s not—”

“Of course it is,” she said sharply. She opened her mouth to say something more, then drew back into herself and took a deep breath. “What do you want, Harry?”

Mouth slightly open, Harry found himself wordless. He had no answer for that question.

“What do you mean?”

She studied him. “What do you want? Do you want to be an Auror? Do you want to get married? Do you want—” her voice hitched a moment. She collected herself again and continued, “Do you want _me_?” 

“I—” Harry began, but she didn’t really want an answer from him. Or perhaps she already knew what he was going to say.

“Because I don’t think you do. I don’t think you even know what you want,” she said. “You’ve been pulling away for months now. Since before the trials ended. Since you got back from chasing down Death Eaters. We hardly ever kiss anymore, forget doing anything more than that. And whenever I touch you, even just your shoulder or hand, you shrink away.” 

“That’s not true,” Harry said, knowing it was. He’d hoped she hadn’t noticed, but Ginny wasn’t stupid. 

“Lie to yourself if you want, Harry,” she said, “but don’t think you can lie to me. I just wish I knew why.” She stared at him, maybe expecting him to answer now that the cards were on the table, but he couldn’t. How could he tell her his mind had been wandering to blokes when he woke up hard in the middle of the night? How could he explain to Ginny that though he’d loved her, he didn’t think he did anymore? How could he say he’d grown bored, unsure of what they had in common since the end of the war? He just couldn’t. 

Once it became clear he wouldn’t say, Ginny shook her head with a bitter sigh. She ran a hand through her long hair. “Maybe you will figure out what you want. Maybe this holiday of yours will help you do that.” She looked him in the eyes, a fierceness in them that once excited him. Now he saw no connection—the spark that existed between them was gone. At least for him. “But I can’t do this anymore, Harry. I can’t wait around for you to figure out if you want me. I can’t let myself hurt like that anymore. I deserve better.” Tears shone at the corners of her eyes, but Ginny wouldn’t let them fall. Not in front of him. He knew that much. “And so do you,” she said, and it seemed to take all of her to do it. 

Harry stood dumb for long minutes. He didn’t reach for her again, didn’t move to be near her. He didn’t think it would be right, because she was. She was right.

His voice a raspy whisper, he asked, “So what does that mean?”

Ginny held up her chin. “It means you can go find yourself,” she said. “But you’ll have to do it without me. It’s over, Harry.” She turned away from him but added, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Nodding slowly, Harry went to the door. He stopped at the threshold and said, “I’m sorry, Ginny. You do deserve better.”

As he left, Harry knew he should feel ruined, empty. He knew there was a loss in him from this, but try as he might not to, he could only see it as the loss of a weight on his chest. He felt freer than he had in months—and for that he felt guilty.

***

He arrived at the Portkey location bright and early. He was to meet the travel advisor he’d booked with weeks earlier to receive the Portkey. The advisor was a small, wiry fellow with bushy eyebrows and overlarge glasses. He dressed exclusively in shades of purple, so it was rather easy to spot him from a distance, even in a partially wooded area like the Portkey location. Harry shouldered his bag, complete with undetectable extension charms courtesy of Hermione, and waved at the man.

“Morning, Mr Waddletop,” Harry said, still trying to wrap his tongue around the name. Waddletop beamed.

“Good morning, Mr Potter! How are you today?”

“Ready to go,” Harry said. Waddletop nodded and produced the Portkey—a small disk with two handles marked _Magical Resorts and Spas_. He’d explained to Harry the Portkeys for travel to wizarding destinations like the Moirai Islands were designed to be recognisable to wizards so they didn’t lose them. No Muggles would be present at the destination, so the usual deterrents were unnecessary. 

“Of course you are, of course,” he said and glanced over Harry’s shoulder into the distance. 

Harry blinked. “Well? Let’s go then.”

Waddletop smile apologetically and cleared his throat. “I’m afraid all the passengers have not arrived.”

Harry stared at him. “I’m sorry? I was told I was the only traveller going to The Zephyr Resort today. You said no one else had booked at all, that I’d be alone on the island.”

Waddletop shrank slightly. “That was premature,” he said and sounded genuinely sorry. “I’m afraid one other booking came in after yours. I tried to suggest other times, to ensure your privacy of course, but I’m afraid it was unavoidable. The booking is for the owner of the resort, you see. Or, rather, his son.”

Slightly annoyed at the change of plans, Harry tried to tamp down the feeling. What did it matter if someone else was coming? He could easily have his own space and time on a set of three islands. And perhaps this bloke would make for good company, anyway. It could help avoid boredom, keep things interesting.

“Who is the owner, then?” Harry asked, trying for optimism. Waddletop opened his mouth to answer, but someone else spoke instead.

“Good morning, Potter, Waddletop.”

The world stopped spinning a moment while Harry’s brain attempted to process the information. When the other traveller came level with them, Harry turned to see Draco Malfoy, leather travelling case floating behind him. He stared for a good long moment at him, too. He looked—good. Very good. Frustratingly good, in fact, but Harry ignored that. The last Harry had seen him had been at his trial. He’d been gaunt, paler than normal, and there was something in his eyes. It was as if he looked on the world with new sight. Or perhaps as though they were open for the first time. His was the only trial at which Harry spoke as a witness—for the defence.

“Malfoy?” Harry said. “You’re the owner of The Zephyr?” Harry couldn’t quite keep the incredulity out of his voice, but he also wasn’t sure he had tried.

Malfoy maintained his impartial expression, his silver eyes guarded, but not as cold as they once had been. 

“The Malfoys own several such resorts worldwide,” he said with a tinge of his old arrogance. Still, it was diluted. Or perhaps what Harry took for arrogance was actually defensiveness.

“I thought one condition of your exoneration was that you stay in the country?” he said, and Malfoy pulled back minutely, as though Harry had tried to bite him. He hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, but the flash in Malfoy’s eyes interested Harry. It wasn’t the hatred that had once lived there. It wasn’t even rage. It was almost embarrassment. 

“The conditions of my agreement with the Ministry require I stay in residence within the borders of the United Kingdom or any land owned by my family. Hence, The Zephyr. And not that it’s any of your business, but all my travel arrangements have been cleared with the Ministry.” The cold edge of his words froze Harry. “Now, if you’re satisfied I’m not trying to evade the law, can we proceed?”

Waddletop nodded enthusiastically, his brow glistening with sweat despite the breeze, but Harry wasn’t quite done.

“And I’m to believe you just happened to decide to visit your resort at precisely the same time I happened to be going?” Harry asked, arms crossed. Malfoy shut his eyes and exhaled a long breath.

“Believe what you want, Potter,” he said. “But now the war’s over, you should probably get used to the fact not everyone is constantly trying to get to you anymore. That kind of suspicion is unhealthy.” His gaze was piercing, meaningful, and Harry felt stripped bare.

“Is that some kind of threat?” Harry asked, taking a step forward. Malfoy laughed a bitter sound and shook his head.

“I promise you, Potter, I’ve no interest in you.” And for some reason, Harry felt as though Malfoy had struck him. The stinging in his cheeks settled deep. “Once we arrive, you won’t see me again until we return.”

Waddletop offered them the Portkey, and as they took it, Harry watched Malfoy. Something was off, but he couldn’t say what. He had little time to think on it because the Portkey activated and whisked them away to a paradise on the water.

***

Harry couldn’t decide if the villa was small or large. He supposed for personal use, as in one guest, it was rather spacious. There was a large main bedroom with a king-sized bed draped in light-weight white linen with blue accents. The en-suite toilet housed a deep bath with enough dials and faucets to rival the prefects’ bathroom at Hogwarts. Each tap bore a small engraving, but all the lettering was Greek. Harry decided the time to be adventurous would come later.

The main area of the villa housed a sitting room complete with Floo, two plush sofas Harry suspected could be configured into more bedding, a dining table and a desk. The gauzy white curtains hung all along the glass-less windows, and both the bedroom and the main living area opened on to the beach. Surrounding the villa were carefully manicured trees and shrubs to ensure privacy between guests and maximise the pleasant aesthetic. Or so Harry decided.

He was only glad there weren’t any albino peacocks. At least as of yet.

Setting his bag on the bed, Harry considered unpacking before deciding he should, instead, explore a bit first. And despite Hermione’s voice, shrill in the back of his mind, Harry left his possessions in the villa and stepped out into the sun. 

The sand stretched out before him in a golden-white strip, edged in the perfect aquamarine of the ocean. The beach was clean, just as well-tended as the plants surrounding the villa. For miles out on the water, Harry saw nothing at all. Only ocean, as though he was alone on the tip of the planet. 

The thought immediately brought his mind to Malfoy, and Harry turned to find the next villa over. The resort was really a set of private villas built along the beach and around a central building. The central resort housed the dining hall, various amenities for sport and relaxation, as well as the concierge desk for bookings and inquiries. 

Harry kicked off his trainers and stepped into the sand, the heat of it searing his feet. He hopped from one foot to the next, cursing himself, until he found a path through the shade. Following the line of trees between the villas, he walked until he found the next one over. Virtually identical to his own, the villa was only remarkable in one way—it was empty. The windows were boarded and the small gate that closed in the entrance was locked. When Harry had arrived at his villa, the windows had been opened to air.

He trekked his way back through the shaded sand to find the villa on the other side of his. But once he arrived, he found the same thing. This one too was boarded and uninhabited. Harry stood in the shade of the unused villa, ocean breeze whipping through his hair and poorly penetrating his Muggle t-shirt, wondering where Draco Malfoy was.

Was it possible Malfoy had decided to leave after all? To go home or to one of his other _several such resorts_ to avoid Harry? No. That was stupid. If anything, Harry was the one who should have cancelled his reservation. He’d been promised a holiday alone, after all. Not the company of Draco Bloody Malfoy, Ex-Death Eater, Pampered Slytherin, and colossal sod. No.

_Maybe they have a personal villa somewhere. They do own the place, after all. It’s probably larger. With more peacocks and less sunshine._

But where was he? He must be on the same island. Right? He’d taken the Portkey with Harry, after all. Surely he didn’t have his own private island as well as villa for the trip. Did he? 

_Actually, that seems perfectly appropriate to a Malfoy._

Harry decided he needed to find out, needed to find Malfoy. Wherever he was. Even if it meant rowing out to one of the other islands just to search them.

“ _Yassas!_ ” 

Harry turned to see a man about ten years older than him with bronze skin and dark, wavy hair coming toward him. He wore the light-weight summer robes uniform to all the resort staff.

“Er, hello?” Harry said, feeling inexplicably sheepish.

“My name is Deion. Can I help you with anything, Mr Potter?” he asked, his bright smile nearly white enough to rival the sand. “I trust everything in your villa is to your liking?”

Glancing back at the boarded up villa, Harry said, “Huh? Oh yeah, of course. It’s great. I was just—er—exploring a bit, actually. I expected to find Mal—Draco housed in one of these.”

He tried for casual but was nearly certain it came out suspicious as hell. Harry coughed a moment and tried not to look too shifty. Deion, thankfully, seemed not to notice.

“Mr Malfoy is housed further along the beach, at a comfortable distance to maintain privacy for both of you,” he explained. He studied Harry a moment, his expression worried. “I was told you wanted privacy, Mr Potter. Are these accommodations not to your liking?”

“No, no!” Harry said, waving him off. “That’s exactly what I want. Yes. Privacy.” He shifted his feet and walked out of the shade, only to immediately regret doing so. Harry ran back to the safety of the shaded sand. “It’s good he’s far. Very good.”

Deion watched him a moment, then inclined his head. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?” Harry shook his head, and Deion added, “Very good. I am always available by Floo to the concierge’s desk, if you need anything, Mr Potter. I hope you have a wonderful stay.”

“Yeah, thanks!” Harry said, waving like an idiot as Deion walked away, completely unhindered by the scorching sand. 

Shoes. Harry decided he either needed shoes or new feet. Yes. 

He made his way back to his own villa to change and collect a towel, shoes, and perhaps one of the books Hermione sent him off with. He decided to spend some time lying on the beach. That’s what people did on holiday, wasn’t it?

Harry could do that. Just lie there. He could relax and soak up some sun and not fret about where Draco Malfoy was or what he was up to.

***

The steady rolling of the waves against the surf played a constant, oscillating rhythm. A gentle breeze whispered over Harry’s skin, keeping him cool even under the heat of the afternoon sun. Lying on a plush towel across the sand, a good book in hand—Hermione’d told him so—should have been the perfect recipe for relaxation. This was the kind of holiday everyone sought, wasn’t it?

Which made Harry wonder why it was he’d read the same three words of _Nelly Porter and the Staff of the Warlock_ for going on twenty minutes now. The story was interesting enough—an action adventure featuring a dashing young Auror investigating a case full of murder, mystery, and—well, Harry hadn’t figured out that last, yet. He couldn’t quite get past chapter one. 

He’d adjusted his position in the sand eleven times, brushed grains off his ankles fourteen times, all the while sure they were insects crawling across him, and stared blankly out at the ocean a total of twenty-three times. He’d even tried to place the book on his face and nap, as he’d heard people tended to do on the beach, but every time he closed his eyes and listened to the waves, he heard them whispering the same thing.

_Where is Draco Malfoy? What is he up to?_

Finally, Harry cast the book aside, got to his feet, and stared resolutely down the beach. Frustratingly, the island curved out of his view, cutting off the beach after a mile or two, and the meticulously arranged flora surrounding each villa meant that Harry couldn’t even guess where Malfoy’s quarters might be.

Harry stared at the book lying on the ground, ignoring Hermione’s voice at the back of his mind telling him he’d regret it if he let it get full of sand. Collecting the book and tossing his towel over his shoulder in a cloud of sand, Harry decided to take a walk. Down the beach. 

It was a perfectly normal thing to do, on holiday. 

So he walked. And walked. And continued to walk.

The island of Lachesis was the central island of the Moirai Islands and the one on which The Zephyr’s private villas were located. The other two islands, Clotho and Atropos, were smaller and located to either side of Lachesis. Deion had mentioned several boat trips he might book to travel to either or both islands, if he got a bit bored, but Harry had waved him off. Harry’d had plenty of things to occupy his time; he was sure he wouldn’t need to visit the other islands.

Villa after villa passed by, each of them boarded up like the ones adjacent to Harry’s. They all seemed virtually identical, outwardly, save for a small plaque on the front of each door with a golden symbol inscribed. Some looked like letters, others looked vaguely like something he remembered from maths classes in Muggle school, before Hogwarts. The symbol on Harry’s villa looked a bit like a trident, or a U with a line through the center. 

Harry knew when he’d come upon Malfoy’s villa for two reasons. One, it was the only other one that wasn’t boarded. And two, the symbol on the front was a capital M.

_Obviously._

Harry stood to the side of the villa and merely stared for several minutes. There was no apparent movement inside, and certainly Malfoy wasn’t outside on the beach. It was possible Malfoy wasn’t there at all and instead was exploring the island or doing some other nefarious deeds. The thought that Harry had come this far to find an empty villa irked him deeply, but he refused to think on it long.

Instead, Harry contemplated the likelihood he could get away with searching Malfoy’s villa.

As he pondered the security and privacy wards placed on each private villa, and the different ways in which Harry might circumvent them without leaving a trace, there was a soft rustle from behind the linen curtains.

Harry jumped and ran back toward one of the empty villas, intending to make his place on the sand as though he’d been sunbathing the whole time. He just managed to get his towel down and kick off his sand-filled trainers before Malfoy emerged from his villa.

If he thought about it, which he didn’t, Harry might have expected Malfoy to gleam in the sunlight, reflecting it back in a similar manner to the sand. Instead, Harry found Malfoy glowing in an altogether different way. His pale skin, while still pale, glistened with a subtle blush, just enough to make him appear almost golden under the afternoon sun.

He wore fitted black trunks under a gauzy, sleeveless grey robe. It hung open and billowed slightly in the breeze, revealing the smooth, muscled expanse of his chest and abdomen. He was also barefoot and when he stepped out onto the sand, he didn’t pause even a moment to flinch. 

Harry grumbled to himself, wondering how Malfoy managed that, when he remembered cooling charms and nearly stunned himself for his stupidity. As Malfoy made his way down the beach toward the water, Harry quickly flipped randomly through his book to look as though he had been ensconced in the book for quite some time. 

As Nelly Porter seemed to be duelling some kind of sea dragon in chapter thirteen, Harry’s eyes roved over the edge of the page to follow Malfoy’s movements. As Harry watched, Malfoy dropped his robe, which laid itself on the sand like a towel without visible instruction, and Malfoy continued on to the water. He paused at the surf, the waves barely licking his toes, and stared out at nothing. The sun beamed down on his back, making his blond hair shine like a beacon.

He looked to one side a moment, then stepped into the waves. Harry watched intently, wondering if Malfoy hadn’t seen him. Malfoy waded further and further out, until he was submerged to his chest. Once he’d reached the depth he wanted, he tilted his head back into the water, soaked his hair, then lifted his head and shook it out. He was far now, but Harry saw the spray of water surround him. 

Was he just swimming? Enjoying the water? Or could he be up to something specific? 

Harry shifted in his place, struggling to see the finer movements Malfoy made with his back to Harry and the island. He faced ever outward, but the other Moirai islands were not directly in front of him. There was nothing to look at.

Setting his book aside, Harry tried to shift closer, to pull his towel further down toward the surf to get a better view. He settled on the very edge of the waves, to Malfoy’s right a few meters, and pretended to read again.

“I assure you it’s much more enjoyable to come join me than to simply watch me swim, Potter,” Malfoy said suddenly. Harry nearly jumped. Malfoy hadn’t turned around at all, and Harry hadn’t noticed a change in his demeanour from the moment he emerged from his villa.

Swallowing hard, Harry said, “Sorry? Did you say something, Malfoy? I didn’t hear you. Was reading my book.” 

Malfoy turned to him then. Malfoy smirked and quirked a brow; his eyes were sharp as crystals and reflected only more questions for Harry.

“Were you? What did you think in Chapter Three when Nelly Porter beats a suspect in an interrogation to get a confession? Seemed a bit unnecessary to me; McMann would have talked without the beating.”

Harry flushed but played it off as a result of the sun. He got to his feet, leaving the book behind, and shrugged at Malfoy. 

“Well, McMann deserved it, in the end, didn’t he? And Porter has a job to do. Needs must when an innocent is killed.”

Malfoy studied him and a wave of shivers rushed over Harry. He held Malfoy’s gaze, piercing as it was. Malfoy smiled, and that unnerved Harry further.

“McMann wasn’t the suspect, Potter,” he said, and Harry blinked, confused. “He’s Porter’s partner. And Porter would never beat a confession out of someone. Too morally upright for that sort of unseemly behaviour.”

Caught, Harry froze. “Er—” 

“Are you coming in or not?” Malfoy said, spreading his arms gallantly over the water in invitation. Now a brilliant shade of red, he was sure, Harry trudged into the water. The ocean was a blue so bright and clear it dazzled Harry a moment. Even through the waves, he could see to the bottom. The waves slapped at his legs and soaked his trunks in uneven splotches, but Harry was determined not to let Malfoy shake him. Still, as he approached the former Slytherin, Harry felt much like a fish swimming directly toward a shark.

As the water level rose and washed up against more intimate areas, Harry jumped slightly and bit his cheek to stop from squealing. Malfoy laughed and Harry frowned.

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry said as he came level with him. The smirk that pulled at Malfoy’s mouth quirked his lips, and Harry found himself staring. The shaking from earlier left Malfoy’s hair dishevelled in thick tendrils around his face and ears, sticking out in places. Usually so perfectly coiffed, Malfoy standing next to Harry, dripping wet, messy-haired, his sun-kissed skin glistening, his lips very slightly blue from the cold water, looked uncomfortably—appealing. 

Harry licked his lips, once or twice, completely unaware of the taste of salt water on this tongue. His attention was focused on Malfoy’s lips.

“See? I told you it would be more fun to join me,” Malfoy said, and Harry snapped back. He spun in the water and made as though something had travelled across his feet. “But I suppose old habits and all that.” He played with the water, his eyes on Harry. 

The wind cooled, the sun beginning to dip lower in the sky, and Harry felt a chill pass over his feverish skin. 

“What does that mean?” Harry said, and Malfoy shrugged.

“You’ve a lot of experience watching me, Potter,” Malfoy said, leaning back into the water. His chest surfaced as he half-floated, and Harry forced himself to stare into Malfoy’s eyes. “Always of the belief I’m up to something dastardly.”

“You were last time,” Harry said without pause. In an instant, Malfoy’s smile vanished, his expression closed, and he stood to his full height, unmoved by the waves.

“So, still checking up on me, then?” he said, the playfulness gone from his voice. Harry hadn’t noticed it until now, when it disappeared, but Malfoy _had_ been playing with him. 

“No,” Harry said quickly, not wanting him to change his behaviour. It was important a suspect was unaware of inquiry. Auror training had taught him that. “I was just—” Malfoy cocked an eyebrow, and Harry said the first thing that came to mind. “You’re very far. From me. Your villa, I mean.”

Malfoy stared evenly at him. “Yes. That was your desire, no? To be alone?”

“Yes. I just—er—wanted to check how far you were,” he said, not looking at Malfoy. “To be sure it was far enough.”

Malfoy turned and began wading back to shore, so Harry followed him, not wanting to linger in the water alone. 

“Am I, then?” he said, his words cold. “Or shall I move to one of the other islands to please you?”

Harry noted the sarcasm and managed to answer with his own. “Well I wouldn’t want you to have to leave the _M_ villa. I know how much names mean to you.” 

Malfoy stopped, an expression of annoyed confusion written on his face. He glanced at his villa, visible in the distance just beyond the beach, and turned back to Harry.

“Merlin, Potter, are you that thick?” he said, shaking his head. “M doesn’t stand for Malfoy. It’s part of the Greek alphabet. It’s _mu_.”

Mortified, Harry tried to brush it off, “I know that. It was a joke, Malfoy. Honestly.”

“I’m sure,” Malfoy said, stepping out of the surf onto the beach. He reached for his robe and pulled out his wand. Harry tensed, expecting Malfoy to curse him, but instead he only cast a drying charm on himself and donned his gauzy robe. Harry stood, shivering and soaked, dripping in front of Malfoy. The blond’s hair, now perfectly dry, played around his face is soft pieces that urged Harry to touch them. “If that’s all, Potter, I’m—”

“When is dinner?” Harry said quickly, unwilling to let Malfoy dismiss him. He blurted the words almost unintelligibly, but Malfoy, squinting slightly at him, seemed to understand.

“They serve dinner in the main building at eight every night,” he answered. Harry smiled, for some reason, and nodded.

“Right, thanks,” he said, knowing they’d told him this when he arrived. “I forgot. See you then, I guess.”

He walked off before Malfoy could say anything else, rushing to collect his things and make his way back down the beach.

As he picked up the copy of _Nelly Porter_ , Harry told himself there was no reason to look back. He would see Malfoy later. Looking back would only convince Malfoy Harry was still spying on him. And if he believed that, Harry would never figure out what he was up to. 

He’d get more answers tonight. At dinner.

***

The hall was a massive circular space surrounded by white columns and open to the night sky. Each column rose upward, like yearning believers reaching up to the gods, and arched slightly inward toward each other. The open-dome effect left Harry awed in wonder, pulled in by the endlessly starry sky. Not even at Hogwarts, during those late-night Astronomy classes, had he ever seen the night sky look this beautiful, this clear.

The tables dotted around the hall were glass-topped and hovered above a circle of small silver discs on the ground. Upon each table was a set of lit tea lights, not enough light to read by, but enough to set an intimate atmosphere.

“Good evening, Mr Potter,” Deion said as Harry walked in, eyes cast upward, mouth slightly agape. 

“Hullo,” Harry said after a moment. Deion gestured to one of the tables, and Harry took his seat. As insubstantial as light, the chair rose up to cradle to his back; it was warm to the touch and vibrated almost imperceptibly. It calmed Harry.

“Dinner each night is a set menu, and the first course will be out shortly,” Deion told Harry, and with a wave of his wand, a thin slice of parchment unravelled before Harry with a list. “In the meantime, can I offer you a drink? We have a selection of unique cocktails, as well as more traditional beverages—ouzo, firewhisky, Gillywater, and the like.”

Harry blinked at the parchment several times. He was about to order firewhisky, his go-to drink since the war, but then noticed the cocktails. 

“Amortentia? That’s not really—”

“It is merely the source of this drink’s inspiration,” Deion explained with a smile. “Meant in good fun, I assure you.”

Harry studied the ingredients, and for reasons beyond himself, shrugged and said, “All right, then. Amortentia, it is.”

Deion whisked away the drinks menu with a flourish and said, “very good, Mr Potter.” He turned to leave, but Harry stopped him.

“Er, shouldn’t we wait for Draco?” he asked, hoping it didn’t sound as awkwardly to Deion as it did to him. Deion gave him a quizzical look.

“I’m afraid Mr Malfoy did not request attendance at dinner tonight,” he said, and Harry flushed.

“No, he told me he’d be here,” Harry said, but realised that Malfoy hadn’t told him that at all. Deion seemed at a loss.

“Of course,” he said, “shall we wait on the first course, Mr Potter?”

Harry glanced around himself, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “No, it’s all right, Deion. Just bring it out when it’s ready. I s’pose he’ll eat when he gets here,” Harry said, and as Deion walked off, Harry had the odd sensation of being stood up.

Moments later, a silver tray floated over and presented him with a frosted, heart-shaped glass filled with bright red liquid. Regretting his decision not to order firewhisky, Harry took it and downed it in one. The drink slid down his throat and left a sensation of lightness, the taste of pomegranate and raspberries on his tongue. Savouring the flavour and still feeling much of his inexplicable embarrassment, Harry gestured at the tray.

“Another,” he told the object, and it floated away immediately. He wasn’t sure it was actually fetching another drink, but he suspected he’d get his second drink one way or another.

Minutes later, it did come, and along with it came the first course. A small bowl of ripe tomatoes, cucumber, chunks of fresh feta cheese, onion, and a drizzle of olive oil garnished with sea salt set in front of Harry. He took the second glass of Amortentia, downed it again, and sent off for another. With a glance around himself to see if Malfoy would finally show, Harry tucked into the salad. Within moments, it was gone and Harry licked his lips.

A buzzing settled at the back of his head without his noticing. The floating chair felt a little more uneven than earlier, and the candlelight flickered. Harry blinked several times, took off his glasses to wipe the lenses, and replaced them slightly crooked.

Malfoy was an idiot. He didn’t know what he was missing. 

The second course arrived with another glass of Amortentia. Roast chicken, encrusted with herbs and stuffed with crushed olives, with a side of hummus and rosemary pita slices and grilled vegetables were presented to him, and he had only mild difficulty cleaning off his plate. For some reason, he was having trouble with his fork. It was a strange design, really, with all those prongs on one end. 

Malfoy still hadn’t shown. Harry wiped at his face and spun around on his floating chair. The world turned and turned, and he was sure those chairs were some kind of danger because the world kept turning after Harry had stopped spinning the chair. 

_He’s a bloody git. And a prat. And a sod._

“He and his stupid lips can eat alone for all I care,” Harry muttered to himself as the next glass of Amortentia arrived. He didn’t remember ordering it, but took it anyway. It was rather delicious, after all, and Harry could barely taste the alcohol. The drink must have been rather weak. 

The final course was baklava drenched in honey and crusted with pistachios, and Harry had decided he couldn’t remember what treacle tart tasted like, because baklava was heaven. His fingers ended up sticky in the end, but Harry thought that was probably because he’d decided forks were for prats. Like Malfoy.

Courses finished, Harry tipped his empty glass of Amortentia to his mouth, sucking out the heart-shaped, raspberry-flavoured ice cube to suck on. He set the glass aside.

“I don’t give a Fizzing Whizzbee what he’s up to, anyway,” Harry said and promptly got to his feet to go find Malfoy.

Harry stumbled out of the hall and vaguely in the direction of Malfoy’s villa. He hadn’t been there from the back before, mind, so he wasn’t quite sure he knew which way to go. But if Harry Potter was anything, it was determined to prove Malfoy was up to something. 

Thankfully, the island grounds were only meant to _look_ wooded and private, but were in fact carefully arranged along narrow, lit paths. Harry followed the paths leading opposite his own villa and guessed from there. In the dark, the floating fairy lights the only guide he could follow, Harry spent roughly ten minutes simply trying to escape the area surrounding the dining hall. In doing so, he nearly stumbled over a fence and directly into one of the large swimming pools. 

Avoiding that trap, he tripped on a rock and smacked his head against a signpost. The pain elicited a cry of pain.

“Shhhh!” he admonished the signpost. “I’m trying to sneak up on Malfoy!”

The signpost was appropriately apologetic, and Harry continued on. By some miracle, he found himself rustling through the bushes behind Malfoy’s villa. He intended to burst in to Malfoy’s villa and demand an explanation, but instead, Harry lingered in moderate quietness just beneath the window to Malfoy’s bedroom.

The curtains were open, and Harry peeked in, somewhat visibly, to the window to search the bedroom. Malfoy—the prat—was not inside. Once again, Harry considered breaking in when he heard a rushing sound and a sudden stop. A glance to the bathroom door confirmed his suspicion Malfoy was in there.

In a moment of clarity, Harry decided he should probably not be seen. He ducked down against the wall of the villa below the sill, and Summoned his Invisibility Cloak. Waiting with something akin to patience, Harry strained his ears to hear Malfoy. There were soft movements beyond the bathroom door. Harry chanced it and peeked up into the window again.

He noticed a book lying open on Malfoy’s bed this time. It was thick, leather-bound, and very worn. Certainly not a novel about an Auror mystery, the book appeared to be a spell or potion book. Harry had seen numerous books like it in Hermione’s library. Although Hermione’s books were usually newer or better cared-for. This book seemed much too old, much too battered for that. Which either meant that Malfoy didn’t care for his books, or—more likely given how carefully arranged every other part of Malfoy was—the book had been used a lot and not originally Malfoy’s possession.

“What could you possibly be looking for in a book that old, I wonder,” Harry muttered to himself and the bathroom door swung open. 

Harry dropped down to his hiding spot again and held his breath. There was rustling and movement inside, but it did not sound particularly rushed or panicked. A soft whooshing sound drew Harry’s attention, and he wondered if Malfoy were levitating objects to attack him, when suddenly, a large, shapeless object assaulted him from the darkness.

Harry whipped out his wand in a silent attack, only to realize a moment too late it was his summoned cloak that had attacked him. Pulling it off his face, Harry adjusted it to cover himself properly, and stood to better see into the bedroom.

Malfoy was standing by his bed, his hair damp and messy as it had been earlier at the beach, his body completely naked. He struck a pale, sharp line against the backdrop of his room, and Harry found himself staring agape for the second time that night.

Taking a small pot from his bedside, Malfoy twisted off the top and dipped his fingers into a thick cream. He began to spread it over himself, first down his arms, then his chest, coating every inch in slow, circular swipes. Harry felt his throat go dry and swallowed fruitlessly several times. 

_What’s in the book? Look at the book. Lift it so I can see,_ Harry bid him silently, but the book was discarded to one side. And Malfoy—

Malfoy had moved on to spreading cream on his legs. One lifted on the bed, Malfoy rubbed the cream into his thigh, sliding from his bum to his knee and onward. Then the other leg, going in reverse direction, his hand brushed up closer and closer to his inner-thigh, to his balls and his cock.

Harry watched him silently, sure that any detail of his actions would reveal Malfoy’s secret. He watched, completely engaged, as Malfoy’s hand finally found his cock. He coated it in the cream, stroking it again and again, rubbing in the mixture until it stood at attention.

His hand slowed after a moment, his mind perhaps on other things, but his cock, fully hard, jutted out proudly. Harry’s brain stopped noticing helpful details and instead, his entire being focused on Malfoy slowly stroking his rock-hard cock.

Then he turned around, hand still stroking, and laid back on the bed. His damp hair strewn over his face and around his head, Malfoy tilted his head back and sped up his stroking. As he did, he began to pant softly and hum soft moans, and Harry came to the painful realisation that he, too, was hard.

Without thinking about it, Harry slipped one hand into his pants, pulled out his own cock, and began stroking himself in time to Malfoy’s wanking. His hand was rough, his movements more jerky, not nearly as languorous as Malfoy’s, but every moment as he watched, Harry could pretend it was Malfoy stroking him instead.

Malfoy moaned louder, his head tilting toward the window as though he might be looking at Harry—watching Harry watching him. He should have been mortified, but instead, Harry only felt hotter, harder. He jerked faster, tightening his grip and bracing himself against the wall of Malfoy’s villa.

Again, Malfoy moaned, and his stroking grew faster, harder, more frantic, his other hand cupping his balls, his legs slightly spread. Harry sucked on his own lip and fought the urge to moan with Malfoy. The haze in his brain swirled as he wanked himself, wanting to last until Malfoy was done, wanting to see him come. 

And then he did. Malfoy stroked and stroked until he arched back, his hand gripping the base of his cock. A jet of white liquid spurted from him, raining down onto his chest and stomach in a stream. He cried out softly as he did and stroked once or twice more, until the orgasm had fully spent itself.

“Fuck,” Harry murmured, unable to stop himself, and he came, the power of it nearly blinding him in his dizzied state, and he dropped his head against the side of the window. He stared at the mess he’d made on the ground next to Malfoy’s villa, no thoughts of shame or confusion or panic entering his mind at all. Instead, he panted silently, tucked himself away, and wondered at the last time a wank had been that good.

When he looked up, it was to find Malfoy standing a few feet from the window, gazing out beyond Harry into the trees, his eyes slightly narrowed. Harry held his breath again and stood motionless. Malfoy’s blond hair was nearly dry now, and Harry couldn’t decide which way he preferred it—wet and dishevelled or dry and fluffy. 

Eventually, satisfied there was no one outside perhaps, Malfoy turned back inside and got into bed. Harry, still breathing unsteadily, left him there and made his way back to his own villa, his mind filled with images of a naked, wanking Draco Malfoy.

***

Harry woke the next morning to a pounding headache, a very dry mouth, and the intense resolve to avoid Draco Malfoy at all costs. Images of the previous night, the muddled feelings and sensations, swirled in his throbbing head, and Harry decided none of it mattered. He had clearly been too drunk and too bored and got himself wrapped up in another idiotic plot. Rather than allow himself to spiral completely out of control, Harry decided to pretend it never happened and go about his holiday as originally planned—alone.

And for two days, he somehow managed to maintain that plan. He spent his days either lying on the beach, forcing himself to actually read the _Nelly Porter_ story, or else taking long walks around the island in directions he was certain were as far away from Malfoy as possible. He ate alone at night, drank a bit less than before—and never Amortentia—and went to bed.

The only problem was once he got into bed. Or in the bath. Or sometimes while swimming or lying on the beach. His mind volunteered a reel of images from that night, watching Malfoy wank, wanking himself. He was plagued with flashes of Malfoy’s toned body, his wet hair, his parted lips. At any moment, Harry found himself thinking of Malfoy’s cock, hard and coated in cream, and Malfoy stroking it steadily. He wanked himself more times than he could count in two days, only on the snippets of memory he had.

Even while he slept, he couldn’t escape the unsettling attraction he felt. Again and again, he woke from torrid dreams of Malfoy touching him, leaving whisper-light kisses across his neck, his chest, his smirking mouth wrapped around Harry’s cock.

And then he’d wank again, desperate for release and trying to convince himself he wasn’t actually wanking to Draco Malfoy. 

On the third morning, Harry decided the only way to stop himself constantly picturing Malfoy naked was to see him again, clothed and not in the throes of lust. Collecting his things, Harry made his way down the beach toward Malfoy’s villa. Once he’d settled at a reasonable distance (some fifty feet away), Harry pulled out his book.

Malfoy lay back on a reclining beach chair, his robe-towel strewn partially covering him, a book of his own propped against his knee. Harry glanced over once or twice to try and read the title of the book. After a few fruitless efforts, he removed his glasses under the guise of cleaning them and cast a magnification charm on them. Replacing them on his nose, he looked back at the book.

_Nicolas Flamel: The Final Diary_

Harry stared a moment, then turned back to his book before Malfoy noticed. He struggled with his own pages, the magnification much too strong from this close. Taking his glasses off again, he removed the charm and pretended to read while he thought.

So Malfoy was reading Flamel. He was a famed alchemist. There could be any number of reasons for his interest. The man had lived six hundred and sixty-six years; that was a lot of time to write diaries on all sorts of things.

 _He’s after the Philosopher’s Stone._

Harry couldn’t find another reason Malfoy might be interested in Flamel. The Stone was, after all, his greatest achievement. Perhaps Malfoy thought he could make one of his own? It wasn’t technically illegal to practice alchemy, though the production of a Philosopher’s Stone was heavily regulated. All known alchemists needed Ministry approval for their experiments. Which Malfoy would certainly never get. 

Harry shifted uncomfortably in the sand, his book holding no interest now. Could Malfoy really be trying something so dangerous? Harry supposed he might have the necessary skills with potions and Transfiguration, but there was more to it than that, if Harry understood the process correctly. Which, he supposed, it was possible he didn’t.

But still. Malfoy—make a Philosopher’s Stone? 

A breeze played havoc with Harry’s unattended pages and snapped him out of his thoughts. He flipped back through the book and glanced over at Malfoy one more time. He was standing now, his book closed on the chair. Malfoy slipped off his robe as Harry watched, and with every inch of revealed skin, Harry felt himself growing hotter than could be attributed to the sun. Brushing at his brow, Harry watched Malfoy cast aside his cloak, his back to Harry.

His trunks were an emerald green today and just as fitted as the last pair. They did little, in fact, to distract from the shape of Malfoy’s arse, and the cut of his hips. Mouth open, Harry struggled to breathe. With a sinking feeling, Harry tried to cross his legs. 

Malfoy walked down to the water and performed the same little ritual as the last time. He waded in, then dipped his hair back into the ocean and whipped it around. He looked briefly in Harry’s direction and Harry was hard again. He swallowed and quickly turned over, hoping it would seem as though he just wanted a different position.

His back to Malfoy and the sun, Harry pressed his clothed erection into the sand until it hurt. He tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the book. It took a few pages, but the impromptu love scene between Nelly Porter and the red-headed vixen Peony Meakly was enough to quell the rush of blood to Harry’s cock. He took a few deep breaths once he had calmed down and relaxed into reading.

The sun beat down on his back, the breeze cooling him as it passed, and the distant crash of waves on the surf were all soothing enough for Harry to let his mind wander. Soon, his eyes drooped and his head hit the sand.

***

“Potter!”

Harry jerked awake and immediately regretted doing so. The moment his brain caught up with reality, he felt a steady, heated pain radiate over his body. Malfoy was shaking him, on his knees next to Harry, his face wrought with concern. Harry took a fleeting moment to soak in the idea of Malfoy _concerned_ for him, then blinked blearily at him and tried to sit up. The effort was rewarded with more pain.

“What’s the problem, Malfoy?” Harry said, groaning through the pain. What had happened? Had Malfoy attacked him?

Malfoy, somewhat unimpressed with Harry’s question, said, “You fell asleep, Potter. In direct sunlight.” Harry stared blankly at him, and he added, “You’ve burnt yourself, idiot.”

Harry tentatively reached back and touched his fingers to his shoulders. The slightest touch seared and he flinched. A half-whimpering groan escaped him, and he shook slightly from the pain as it hit him fully how badly he’d burned himself. He struggled to his feet, but every movement was threaded with agony.

“Don’t, don’t! Potter,” Malfoy said, hands up as though afraid he might topple over, “just stop! How did this even happen, Potter? Did you not use protection? Or were you too busy watching me to remember?”

Harry turned a darker shade of red and said, “Of course I remembered. I put on sun cream this morning. Maybe this brand is useless.” Harry pulled the bottle out of his towel.

Malfoy read the bottle and laughed. “Sun cream? This is Muggle stuff, Potter, of course it’s useless.” He shook his head in disbelief. “The Ultraviolet Shield Potion is only a thousand times more effective.”

Harry glared at him and tried to shoot him a look, but the sudden turn of his head aggravated the burn on his neck and he winced. Malfoy made a noise of displeasure and gestured for Harry to follow him.

“You need to get out of the sun,” he said. “You can attend to the burn in my villa.” 

Harry, struggling to follow without hurting himself more, waddled after Malfoy trying not to seem to eager. It was a perfect opportunity to collect more information on what Malfoy was doing reading about Nicolas Flamel. So perfect, Harry wanted to pretend it was intentional, but the pain in his body was almost certainly not worth it.

He stepped into Malfoy’s villa, and the cool, shaded air immediately soothed the radiating burn. He sighed in relief and set his things down on the table. Pulling out the bottle of aloe he’d brought along, he squirted out the green gel and tried to apply it where he could reach. His skin felt at once better and worse, burning cold now, but at least he wasn’t radiating anymore. His shoulders and arms felt somewhat better, but the parts of his back that were unreachable to him were still searing.

Malfoy just watched him incredulously for a moment, then shook his head and wandered off into the bedroom to get something. Harry took the chance to do a cursory search of the living area. There were various books strewn around, some on potions and others seemed to be novels, but no other book seemed related to Flamel or the Philosopher’s Stone. At least, not superficially.

Harry quickly went back to his aloe application as Malfoy walked out of his bedroom carrying a jar of cream. Harry’s mind raced, a blush burning his cheeks. He looked away and tried not to think about the jar of cream from the previous time he’d seen Malfoy here.

“Stop being ridiculous, Potter,” he said, and Harry froze, wondering if Malfoy could read his mind. “This Muggle Aloe is just as useless as the sun cream. Here,” he said, and Harry read the jar. _Mistress Marigold’s Magical Medicated Moisturizer._ “Magical salves will take care of your burn in a matter of minutes.”

“Er, thanks,” he said, taking the jar and returning to his ministrations, but he could no more reach those areas of his back with the magical salve. Malfoy sucked his teeth and huffed.

“Honestly, Potter, let me help you,” he said and took the jar from Harry. To Harry’s simultaneous pleasure and horror, he began to apply the salve to Harry’s back, smoothing it into his skin much the same way he had applied cream to himself the previous night. Harry swallowed hard and focused on the painting on the wall, as Malfoy’s hand rubbed gently against his lower back. 

“That’s—great, actually,” he said, the salve taking immediate effect. The redness on his arms faded before his eyes, the throbbing pain dulling with it.

“Of course it is,” Malfoy said. “It’s magical. How do you not know about these things? It’s like you forget you’re a wizard. I don’t know how you managed to get through Hogwarts if that’s how you think.”

“I was a bit preoccupied dealing with Voldemort to learn about magical sun protection,” Harry snapped. Malfoy immediately stopped spreading the cream.

“Of course,” he said and set the jar down on the table, his expression closed again. Harry felt a pang of guilt after Malfoy had helped him without reservation. The blond turned and walked to the door of his villa. “Lock up when you’re done.”

He walked out without another word, and Harry felt a rock drop to the pit of his stomach. He groaned silently to himself, his mind replaying the words. He looked around himself, feeling more like an intruder now than he did the first night.

Harry nearly left the salve there, deciding the remaining burn could heal on its own, when Malfoy opened the door. 

He spared Harry half a glance and said, “I forgot my robe.” 

“Wait,” Harry said, reaching for Malfoy. He stopped just short of grabbing his arm and dropped his hands. Malfoy gave him a narrowed look. “What I said—it didn’t come out the way I meant,” he said quickly, awkwardly. Then, abruptly, he asked, “will you come to dinner with me?” Malfoy quirked a suspicious brow, as though Harry was trying to trick him. “To make up for this.” He gestured between them. “And to say thank you. For helping me.”

Malfoy maintained his stare. “You realise dinner is included in the price of the stay, yes?” he said, and Harry rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips.

“You know what I mean, Malfoy, come on,” he said. He offered Malfoy what he hoped was an encouraging look and, after a moment, Malfoy nodded. “Great! I’ll see you at eight, then.” 

As Harry made for the door, Malfoy stopped him. “Take this,” he said, giving Harry the salve. “You still have some burns.”

Harry took the jar from him, their fingertips brushing slightly as he did. He considered Malfoy, as he left, and a small voice at the back of his mind wondered if Malfoy would ever cease to surprise him.

***

Harry stared at himself in the mirror. He’d been standing there for near an hour changing clothes and trying in vain to flatten his hair, and he had no idea why. He’d changed in and out of his nicest trousers, his best-fitting denims, his most modern robe, all the while trying to ignore the churning in his stomach, the lightness in his chest.

Once again, staring frustrated at his own reflection, Harry vaguely considered going naked but thought that might not work in his favour. Furthermore, nakedness meant not hiding anything—including the inconvenient reactions Harry was having to every other thought about Malfoy.

“This is mental,” he said to himself, and pulled on his denims and a light purple, cotton button-up, which he rolled at the sleeves. Hermione had bought him the shirt, insisting it brought out his eyes and wizards were fond of purple so it would blend in better in the magical world. Harry hadn’t been convinced at the time, but staring at himself now, his wild hair still untamed and his eyes bright as emeralds behind his glasses, Harry thought maybe Hermione had a point.

And Malfoy, pureblood and all, would almost certainly show up in robes, so perhaps purple was the best choice.

Harry ran a hand through his hair again, only just noticing the time. Cursing, he picked up his wand, sliding it into his pocket, and rushed out the door. His entire body seemed to vibrate as he rushed to the main hall for dinner. The sky was clear, dusted with crystals. As Harry arrived at the hall, he found it decorated in much the usual way, though it wasn’t empty. 

A young woman with luxurious inky waves of hair and smooth olive skin stood talking to—Malfoy. Harry almost didn’t recognize him from behind wearing Muggle clothing. Stopped dead in his tracks, Harry took in the sight of Malfoy wearing something other than robes. His trousers were fitted and grey, his shirt a black, button-up like Harry’s. He’d rolled the sleeves as well, and staring at him, Harry had trouble swallowing against the dryness in his throat. 

Every hair in place, Malfoy looked—alarming. Harry was having trouble deciding whether he was more attractive naked or completely clothed as he was now. 

The woman laughed, a soft, bubbly noise, and placed her hand on Malfoy’s arm for a moment. She wore a blue robe that looked more like a dress to Harry, and she was undeniably beautiful. And Harry felt a surge of something he hadn’t felt since sixth year.

Shaken by his feelings, Harry tried to calm himself, to let go of what he was thinking, and took a step toward them. As he approached, the woman noticed him, nodded to Malfoy, and excused herself. Malfoy turned as she left. With a slight intake of breath upon seeing him, Malfoy nodded to him. Harry felt a surge of pleasure.

“Evening, Malfoy,” Harry said, gesturing to the table as he took a seat. Malfoy collected himself and followed suit. For a moment everything froze, and Harry was caught gaping at Malfoy, at the idea of the two of them sitting to dinner together, of everything around them. Then, when the world un-stuck, Harry panicked and blurted, “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

Malfoy pulled back, his eyes sharp. “I wouldn’t dream of rejecting an invitation from you, Potter,” he said, and Harry shifted in his seat.

“You did,” he said. “The first night. I thought you were coming to dinner and you didn’t. You stayed in your villa,” he said, and seeing the questioning look in Malfoy’s eyes, Harry flushed and cast his eyes elsewhere but Malfoy’s face. “So I was told, anyway.”

There was a pause, and Malfoy said, “I was unaware your awkward questioning constituted an invitation, Potter. And I was under the impression you wanted to keep as much distance between us as possible, no? Short of leaving the island, anyway.”

Harry opened his mouth with no plans regarding what he might say, but Deion appeared from nowhere and inquired about drinks. Malfoy, eyes trained on Harry, answered smoothly.

“Unicorn Blood.”

Harry nearly said something stupid again, about how the last time they’d seen any unicorn blood, Malfoy hadn’t been so interested in drinking it, but he managed to hold his tongue somehow.

“Same,” he said, without checking the menu, and Deion smiled.

“Very good, Mr Malfoy, Mr Potter. The drinks and first course will be along momentarily. I bid you both a good evening,” he said and disappeared again before Harry could tell where he went. Although, to be fair, Harry hadn’t been looking. He was too busy maintaining Malfoy’s intense stare.

_Focus, Harry. You’re meant to be gathering information, remember?_

Malfoy licked his lips, and Harry was undone. Mind flooded with images of naked Malfoy, Harry felt his blood travel south. He coughed, crossed his legs painfully, and altogether looked suspicious. 

“Your clothing,” Harry said out of nowhere, hoping to distract himself, but instead his eyes found the unbuttoned collar of Malfoy’s shirt, the smooth skin of his neck and chest, and he was nearly lost again. Malfoy, for his part, looked somewhat concerned for Harry’s mental health. “I’m surprised you have anything Muggle.”

He was an idiot. Was this what Auror training was for? To make an utter arse of himself in front of a—a person of interest?

“The things about me that might surprise you, Potter, could fill the Room of Requirement.” 

Harry laughed. “I don’t doubt that.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, off-kilter now, and Harry smiled. He liked Malfoy off-kilter.

“What is this, Potter?” he asked after a moment. “Did the sunburn roast your brain? Or are you always this—surreal—one-to-one?”

The drinks arrived on their floating tray, two champagne flutes filled with a sparkling, silvery beverage. They both took their glasses, Harry held his out to toast, and Malfoy, hesitant, clinked their glasses. Harry took a long drag on the glass and felt immediately light-headed. 

Malfoy, who had sipped his drink, only looked at Harry, expectant.

“This is my thank-you dinner,” he said, and with a somewhat deadpanned tone, added, “A dinner date with Harry Potter: isn’t it all you dreamed and more?”

Malfoy stared a moment, then to Harry’s surprise, laughed. It was a low, velvet sound unlike anything Harry had ever heard from Malfoy. What’s more—it sounded genuine. There wasn’t a trace of a jeer within it, and Harry felt lighter than the drink.

“How often do you think I dream of dining with you?” he said, all playful suggestion. Harry smirked.

“Given how obsessed you were with me in school?” he answered. “All the time.”

Malfoy’s stare was even but hungry. A spark flashed in Harry’s belly, rising with an electric tingle until it settled in his heart. Everything was spinning, uneven, and Harry realised another drink had presented itself to him.

“Obsessed is a strong word,” Malfoy answered. “I may have followed you, but I’m not sure obsessed best describes my actions. After all, I never spied on you under an Invisibility Cloak, tracked your every move via magical map, or used Polyjuice Potion to break into your common room.”

Harry’s mouth fell open, his eyes wide, but his mind was caught between embarrassment, alarm, and fascination. Malfoy tipped his glass to him and sipped again. There was food in front of Harry when he glanced down, but he didn’t remember anyone bringing it.

He wanted to—more than he’d wanted anything in years—he wanted to ask. He wanted to know how Malfoy knew all those things. But it occurred to him it didn’t matter. What mattered was Malfoy staring at him like that, laughing with him, making Harry feel light as air.

“Why are you here, Malfoy?” Harry asked, but there was no heat or interrogation in the question. It was curious, honest, and maybe Malfoy heard that, because he answered.

“I needed to get away,” he said, his plate clean of their first course. Harry wasn’t even sure what it was they ate. “After the trials, I just needed some time away from everything—my family, the wizarding world, everything.”

Harry considered him, his long fingers playing around the stem of the champagne flute. A flash of those fingers wrapped around a different kind of shaft intruded into Harry’s mind. He stifled a groan. Malfoy drew his thumb up and down the stem, caressing the underside of the glass, his eyes on Harry.

“Family troubles?” Harry asked, trying to maintain a neutral tone despite the tightness in his throat and trousers. A headline from the _Daily Prophet_ , from months passed, popped into Harry’s mind, and he clung to it. “I—er—I’d heard you were meant to get married but called it off?”

Malfoy shifted back in his floating chair, the black shirt intensifying the paleness of his skin, the sharpness of his grey eyes. In a breathy whisper, he said, “yes.”

Harry swallowed, downing more of his third—fourth?—drink than intended. “I’d have expected Astoria Greengrass to be a perfect match for you,” he said, unsure of his line of questioning. “Pureblood, smart, beautiful, blonde.”

“There are other things,” Malfoy said, and Harry tilted his head in question. Hesitating, considering Harry, Malfoy eventually went on, “It may surprise you to learn the Malfoy name isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” and Harry snorted despite himself. Malfoy studied him and nodded. “Yes, well, it was a shock to me, anyway. And a rude one. But Astoria was willing to overlook that.” He seemed momentarily absorbed by his food, the second course Harry had missed, then said, “there was only one problem.”

“What?” Harry asked. 

“I don’t love her,” he said, and Harry felt his mouth fall open. “Whatever you think, love matters to me. And I—” He stopped, apparently warring with himself. “I’ve never been in love. I want to know what it feels like. At least once, before I tie myself to anyone forever.” He set his utensils down and leaned back, his shirt falling further open to reveal more of his smooth chest. A few stray locks of hair fell into his face, and Harry traced the line of them with his eyes. “And before you tell me it’s all sunshine and snitches, or whatever—”

“I wouldn’t know,” Harry said without thinking. The world seemed somewhat sideways. Malfoy looked at him, eyes wide, frozen in Harry’s words. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been in love either. I—I thought I loved Ginny, but the thought of marrying her is terrifying, and lately I’ve been completely uninterested in her, and I don’t think about her much when I’m not around her, and I think I’m such an arse, but I’ve been into blokes for a while now, and I can’t tell her.” The words all rushed out in an instant, without Harry knowing why he was telling Malfoy all these things. Malfoy seemed just as stunned by it all, but Harry continued anyway, “so the break-up was probably for the best.”

Malfoy unfroze after a few moments, leaning fluidly back until his chair nearly reclined. He was at ease, comfortable, and the smirk on his mouth spoke of a pleasure Harry couldn’t identify. At least, his fuzzy brain couldn’t. Everything moved faster than usual when he turned his head.

“Blokes?” Malfoy asked. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for that, Potter.” He laughed once, his smile making Harry’s head spin and his stomach flutter. “Am I the first you’ve told? All these years and this is the secret of yours I get to keep. What sort of blokes interest you?”

Harry pulled a face, but he began to think he was too drunk to be conducting an inconspicuous interrogation.

“Blonds,” he said without hesitation. “Tall, pale skin. Blue eyes. Or grey. Grey’s good.” He gave Malfoy a side-long look, laughed a moment, and added, “and a sharp tongue.”

Malfoy had lost his composure entirely, and Harry counted it as a victory for a moment. His expression was shocked, mouth agape, eyes searching, shoulders down. But then he moved, faster than a Snitch, and was on his feet.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, and before Harry could even process, Malfoy was gone.

Harry blinked, lost and confused, at the empty chair opposite him. Then, struck with a kind of determined fury, he got to his feet and ran after Malfoy. Why was he running away? Had Harry somehow touched on something? He had no idea how what he said could relate to making a philosopher’s stone and secret plots of evil, but before Harry congratulated himself, he decided to investigate further.

He stumbled through the grounds of the resort again, this time finding his way back to Malfoy’s villa with more ease than the last. Harry looked through the bedroom window carefully, pulling his Invisibility Cloak out of the tiny pouch he’d concealed in his pocket. Undetectable extension charms were unspeakably useful.

He tossed the cloak over his head and searched the room where he could. But Malfoy was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, Harry craned his head to listen in and heard the distinct sound of rushing water. Struggling through the shrubs around the villa, Harry found his way to the small bathroom window. The curtains were pulled but fluttered in the breeze from the open window. Through the shifting opening, Harry found Malfoy.

Dousing himself in what Harry guessed was cold water, given the lack of any kind of steam, Malfoy stood naked, head bowed beneath the jet, hands braced against the wall. His face was contorted in anger and pain Harry couldn’t explain.

“Why, damn it,” he said to himself. Malfoy balled his fist and slammed it against the tiled wall. The sound caused Harry to jump. “Why did you have to say that, Potter?” 

He swore into the water, his balled fist easing, travelling down to grasp his erect cock. Breaths short, shallow, Harry watched Malfoy masturbate again, watched him slide his tightening fist up and down over his erection, his mouth forming the vague shape of what Harry could decide was only one word.

_Potter._

Flushed with desire, Harry reached down to his own cock again, stroking himself roughly, desperately, to Malfoy doing the same. He finished quickly, messily, his movements unbalanced, sloppy. He ran off before Malfoy had a chance to finish himself off.

When Harry made it to bed, he lay there, the room spinning and his mind reeling. He’d seen Malfoy look that pained before—once. Harry had reacted badly the last time, nearly killed him. Now he tried to convince himself it was the same—that Malfoy was angry because he was losing his nerve. It was the only thing that made sense.

The only thing.

***

Harry woke early with a pounding head and a strong sense of guilt he couldn’t place. Stumbling out of bed, he rifled through his bag to find the emergency potions he’d packed. He plucked the Hangover Draught from the set, downed it, and dropped back down on the bed to wait for it to take effect.

Bit by bit, the steady banging in Harry’s head dissipated, leaving only echoes at first, the softest knocking, and then nothing. The lead in his limbs lifted, the fog in his mind gone, but the guilt remained. His stomach churned, and Harry ran to the toilet to vomit but nothing came. He heaved once or twice, then calmed himself. 

A playback of the previous night’s activities occupied his mind, and Harry tried to set it aside. He tried to focus on the anxiety in Malfoy’s voice, not the pain wrought on his face or the sight of his erection as he whispered Harry’s name. All that mattered was Malfoy might be losing his nerve, just like last time. Harry had no idea what he’d said to trigger it, but he wouldn’t let this opportunity pass. Not this time.

He’d stop Malfoy before it was too late—for both of them.

Intent on wasting no time, Harry threw on whatever clothing was close at hand and ran out the door. The sun beamed blinding down on Harry as he ran awkwardly across the beach to Malfoy’s villa. Half-way there and drenched in sweat, Harry cursed the ban on Apparition within the grounds of the islands and tried to focus instead on how he might convince Malfoy not to try and make a philosopher’s stone. 

Harry skidded to a halt in front of Malfoy’s villa, tramped through the gate, and pounded on the door. Breathing heavily and wiping sweat from his forehead before it blinded him, Harry waited. And waited. And waited.

Nothing. No answer. 

Mouth open to pant more efficiently, Harry grimaced at the unanswered door and peered through the window. The curtains were drawn, the windows shut to the heat. Was Malfoy not awake? He’d not had as much to drink as Harry had the previous night, if Harry remembered correctly. But all Harry could remember clearly when he tried was the look on Malfoy’s face as he stroked himself, angry and pained, in the shower. That was where Harry had left him.

What if he’d fallen and hurt himself? What if he’d tried to start making the stone last night and it went wrong? Flashes of a wounded, unconscious, bleeding Draco Malfoy flooded Harry’s mind, and the sickening guilt associated with Malfoy, blood, and bathrooms nearly overwhelmed Harry. 

Edging on panic, Harry pulled out his wand, about to blast open the door however he could manage.

“Can I help you, Mr Potter?” Deion’s voice cut through Harry’s fear, and he turned to see the concierge’s raised eyebrows and questioning eyes.

“Yes,” he said quickly, sheathing his wand. “I need you to open the door. I’m afraid Draco’s hurt himself.” Deion didn’t move. Harry fidgeted. “I’ve been knocking, but there’s no answer.”

Deion, head tilted slightly, smiled. “That would be because Mr Malfoy is not in his rooms.” Stymied, Harry felt a wash of embarrassment not unknown to him on this trip. Is this what holidays were? Hangovers and shame?

“Oh,” he said. “Er, well, where is he?” Harry was gifted with another strange look from Deion before he added, “only, I really need to speak with him. Urgently.”

Deion considered, took in the flush on Harry’s cheeks and his damp hair and clothes, and settled on an answer. 

“I’m afraid I cannot give you information on another guest, Mr Potter,” he said, and Harry deflated slightly. “However, if I may suggest, we do have some wonderful tours available. The boat tour to one of our islands is of particular interest.” 

“Which one?” Harry asked, catching on. 

“Clotho,” he said. “It has some beautiful caves worth exploring before you leave.” Deion made to leave, paused, and offered Harry an inscrutable smile. “Today’s trip leaves from the pier in approximately twelve minutes.” He nodded his head. “Good day, Mr Potter.”

Deion disappeared as usual, but Harry barely noticed. He was already legging it to the pier, his mind racing with the possibilities. Malfoy was going to try and make the stone today. Harry was sure of it. The caverns on Clotho must have something to do with it. Harry remembered reading something about the mystical qualities of the secret caverns of the island when he perused The Zephyr’s attractions list before booking. Harry couldn’t remember the details and knew little of what was involved in making a philosopher’s stone, but why else would Malfoy be reading about Nicolas Flamel and organizing clandestine trips to mystical caves?

Harry came upon the pier only a minute or so before the boat was due to leave. Slowing his pace to catch his breath and appear less suspicious, Harry sought out the right boat. There were a set of small rowboats lined along the pier to either side. They were each painted white, made of wood, and appeared made to carry no more than two passengers. Malfoy stood next to one further down the pier.

His thin frame was curled over the edge of the boat, placing something within the bow. Harry squinted but couldn’t tell what it was from this distance. Malfoy placed a robe over the objects just as Harry came level with him.

“Malfoy, what a surprise,” Harry said, “are you taking the trip to Clotho today too?”

Malfoy blinked up at him, pupils pinpricks in his silver eyes, his skin paler than it had been previous days. He hadn’t slept well, Harry surmised—no doubt the effect of his failing nerve and Harry’s presence. 

“Potter?” he asked, eyes shifting over Harry and the otherwise empty pier. “What are you doing here?”

Harry eyed him and made for the boat. Malfoy took a half-step to block his way, then stopped, as though catching himself. The boat rocked against the pier as Harry stepped in, sitting himself opposite where Malfoy had placed his secret items. The salt air helped clear his mind, and Harry watched Malfoy closely. He wore lightweight khaki trousers, rolled up at the ankles, and a blue shirt, so light it was partially transparent, revealing the pale, smooth expanse of his chest and stomach beneath it. He wore no shoes.

“I’m, er, here for the boat trip,” Harry repeated, forcing himself to look at Malfoy’s face instead of his torso. He found Malfoy had replaced the mask of calm distance and was disappointed for it.

“Of course you are,” he said, settling into the boat himself. The water lapped at the edges, but Malfoy’s poise ensured the boat moved little as he entered it. Harry shifted a bit to jerk the boat more and deny Malfoy level ground.

“Meaning?” Harry said. Malfoy untied the boat from the pier, and it immediately began moving on its own toward the island.

“Only that you seem to be everywhere I am this trip,” he answered evenly. “A peculiar turn of events given how adamant you were about spending time alone.”

Harry leaned back, pretending to watch the island approach, his eyes always on Malfoy. “I don’t know what you mean. I just wanted to see the island. I was told it was not-to-be-missed.”

Malfoy said nothing to that, only turned his attention to the water. As the boat approached the island and the morning wore on, the sun emerged brighter, hotter, and Harry found himself sweating and thirsty in the unprotected boat. Malfoy watched him for a bit, his entire being apparently immune to the heat or the sting of the salt water. Eventually, he rummaged in the bag he brought, concealed beneath his robe, and offered Harry a flask.

“Drink, Potter,” he said, and Harry took the flask, hesitating only a moment. He downed half the flask in a moment, his parched throat desperate for the moisture. “You planned a boat trip and didn’t think to bring any supplies.” Malfoy studied Harry with the echo of a smirk on his lips. Harry capped the flask and handed it back. “Curious that. It’s almost as if this was an unplanned adventure. Perhaps a spontaneous decision you made sometime this morning.”

Harry coloured and set to fanning himself, playing off the heat. “Maybe it was,” he said defensively. “Like I said, I thought I should see the island, before I leave.”

Malfoy’s eyes never left Harry’s. A chill ran over Harry, settling in his belly and sparking something much warmer. “Or before I leave,” he said, suddenly rather close to Harry. Breath caught, Harry held Malfoy’s gaze—molten, mercurial, confusing. Then Malfoy turned away, the island nearly upon them, and Harry exhaled, his hangover and dehydration leaving him dizzy.

“Maybe,” he said again, and Malfoy shot him a surprised look. The edge of the island hung over them now, the boat drifting into the mouth of a large cavern. Shadows fell over Malfoy’s face, blocking out any detail Harry might have gleaned there. “Exploring is more fun in company,” he said. “Even if that company’s you.”

There was silence, and Harry’s eyes struggled to adjust. A soft laugh followed, and Malfoy said, “Would you like to have fun with me, Potter?”

Harry felt something brush his leg but couldn’t see much. He reached for his wand, to light the cave, but a flash stopped him. There was a spark, a moment of blindness in the darkness, and suddenly Harry could see. The cavern was smooth stone, the effect of centuries of erosion from the softly lapping waters, and impossibly dark. It was a kind of darkness that felt oppressive, surreal, magical. A vague sense of familiarity rose in Harry, an unease he couldn’t quite put words to. 

But at the top of the cavern, the unevenly domed ceiling was dotted in a trail of stardust, twinkling like the vastest galaxies, and the ribbon of stars lead in one specific direction. 

Harry’s eyes came down to find Malfoy, his wand out, a pleased smirk on his mouth. 

“You did that?” Harry asked. Malfoy nodded.

“Only one spell will guide the way to where we’re going,” he said. “And it’ll only work if your intentions are precise.”

The boat guided itself, like a ghost through walls, down the path illuminated on the cavern ceiling. Harry tried to see beyond them, beyond the boat down the tunnel, but he couldn’t make out much more than stone and water.

“Relax, Potter,” Malfoy said. He tilted his head back, his hair falling about his face, the line of his neck beckoning Harry.

“I’d relax more if I knew where we were going,” he said, edging closer to Malfoy and the bag beneath him. 

“There is a mystical cave within the caverns of his island,” Malfoy said simply. “The waters within the cave have—unique—properties. Now if you’d allow me to enjoy this moment, Potter.” He grew quiet a moment, studying the ceiling. “It’s almost romantic, really.”

Harry shifted closer to Malfoy, trying to ignore the urge he had to climb on top of him. Though it might distract Malfoy enough for Harry to get at his bag…

“If you wanted to romance me, Malfoy, you didn’t needn’t have gone to all this trouble,” Harry said, and Malfoy looked up at him. The look caught Harry, pinned in place and scattered among the false stars. “I’m not that high-maintenance,” he managed breathily. Malfoy smiled.

“I know.” Silence fell around them, heavy and twinkling, then Malfoy added, “This wasn’t for you.”

“Then what’s it for?” Harry asked.

The boat stopped, butting softly against a shore Harry hadn’t seen coming. The spell between them broken, Malfoy turned, a grin spreading across his face. He got out of the boat and stepped onto the ledge. He collected his bag and motioned for Harry to follow him.

“We walk from here,” he said, and Harry scrambled to get out and keep up. Malfoy walked quickly, determinately, through the darkness toward an unknown end. Harry stopped himself from taking Malfoy’s hand or a fistful of his clothing so as not to lose him in the shadows, but they only travelled a few minutes in the dark.

They stopped at the mouth of a smaller cave. It was a near-perfect circle, the walls gleaming with veins of gold and pinpricks of crystal reflecting an ethereal light. The domed ceiling drew wavering lines in the gold from the peak to the edges of a pool. The pool, edged by a few feet of stone all around, was filled with a water so clear you could see straight to the bottom. The basin of the pool was streaked with gold as well, but so much so it seemed to glow a bright yellow-white. Harry took a step toward the pool, drawn by the water, but Malfoy stopped him with a hand.

“We can’t go in there, Potter,” he said. “Not like this.” And Malfoy began to remove his clothing. Harry stared, dumb and distracted, for a moment before Malfoy noticed and shook his head. “We have to leave all impurities at the mouth, or we’ll poison the pool.” Harry still didn’t move, and Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Clothing, jewellery, even our wands. Everything has to go. We must enter as purely as we can make ourselves.”

Harry swallowed hard, pulling his shirt over his head, and hesitated, the entire scenario suddenly recalling the last time he was in a strange magical cave with another wizard. “Malfoy, what is this place?”

“Don’t you trust me, Potter?” Malfoy, down to his pants and showing no modesty whatsoever, laughed and said, “It’s called The Cradle, by some. Others call it the Well, or the Source. The waters in the pool have healing powers. They say a dip in these waters can wash away all impurities. Who knows, Potter? The waters might even be powerful enough to heal your scar.” 

Harry removed his shoes and socks, then undid his trousers, trying to ignore the suddenly very naked Draco Malfoy next to him. He removed the last of his clothing and watched as Malfoy stepped to the edge of the pool. He lingered there a moment, gazing down into the water as Harry’s eyes roved over him, and then stepped in. He slid down into the pool as though being welcome by it, letting it soak every inch of him. His head disappeared beneath the surface, and he reemerged, his wet hair dripping tendrils messily over his face. 

Malfoy leaned his head back into the water again, and Harry watched in awe as the fine web of scars that stitched across his shoulder, the scars Harry had given him years ago, began to glow. Bit by bit, the glowing drew inward, as though some practiced hand erased the scars like lines of ink being unwritten.

Harry gaped, standing naked at the edge of the pool and forgetting he was. Malfoy looked up once the glowing faded and smiled brightly. He nodded his head to the side, inviting Harry, and Harry stepped into the water as though entranced.

The pool pulled him down, deeper, with the gentle urging of a mother to her child. It soothed his pains and erased his dehydration. The scars on his hand from Umbridge, the marks of war and loss began to unweave themselves from his body. He hesitated before dipping his head, unsure if he was willing to give up his scar, the lightning bolt that marked his life, that made him who he was. In the end, he dipped his head, too, but when he emerged, the scar remained. The only one left. Harry wondered if it really was integral to his identity.

Maybe it was now.

Malfoy grinned at him, his lips gleaming with wetness Harry wanted to suck off of him. He floated comfortably in the water, and Harry reminded himself not to look down, not to see too much of Malfoy naked and wet.

“Was that so difficult, Potter?” he asked, teasing. Harry pulled a face.

“Well, the last time I was in a cave like this was in sixth year, the night Dumbledore died,” he said, and Malfoy suddenly went quiet, the smile gone from his face.

He frowned slightly and looked aside, to the golden-veined walls and to the beautiful place he’d brought Harry. 

“I don’t understand, Potter,” he said. “Every time things seem to be going well between us, you bring up the war and my worst moments. As if you’re testing me, or trying to make me crack, make me angry. You go from flirting with me to treating me like a suspect. So what is it you want, Potter?”

Harry pulled back, but his gaze was rooted to Malfoy. Something flared in him. 

“I want to know what you’re up to,” he said bluntly. “Of course I’m suspicious, Malfoy, when you’re reading up on Nicolas Flamel just after you’ve been pardoned for everything during the war. I want to know what you’re planning to do. Why are we here, Malfoy?”

Malfoy’s eyes turned hard, stone and crystal, cutting into Harry. He seemed on the precipice of anger, of the same kind of instinctual aggression Harry had met in him before, in sixth year, in those dark moments when Malfoy felt cornered and desperate. Harry had told himself he’d approach it differently this time, but was he?

“Do you even know what that book is about?” he asked, and Harry blinked. At a loss for words, he said nothing, and Malfoy’s edge of anger dissipated, disappointment replacing it. “It’s his final diary. A collection of the last things he wrote before he died.” He exhaled slowly, deliberately, and shut his eyes. “It’s about how he came to find peace in the face of death. That’s why I’m reading it.” He shook his head. The ethereal light of the cavern played off Malfoy’s wet hair, and Harry thought for a moment there was a halo of light around his head. “He wrote about visiting this spring and the spiritual experience he had here. I thought—” He stopped, frustrated, then went on, “I thought if I visited it would make me new, as well. It might give me a fresh start in life, to figure out where to go from here. I want to move on, to begin again, but you won’t let me. You won’t forgive me for what I’ve done no matter what I try to do now.”

A flare of guilt closed Harry’s throat a moment, followed by a flash of fury. “That’s not true!” he said, sending a rush of water as he cut his arm through the water. Malfoy stared at him with narrowed eyes. “I did forgive you. I forgave you at the Battle of Hogwarts, in the hall just after it was over. I forgave you then and every moment since.”

“Then why do you keep following me?” Malfoy snapped, surging toward him, “why do you cast suspicion over everything I do?”

“Because I’m confused!” Harry yelled, “I’m attracted to you, and I shouldn’t be with all our history, but I can’t stop thinking about you. I keep trying not to, but I want you so—”

But his last words were cut off by Malfoy’s mouth. He pushed Harry back against the wall of the pool, kissing him roughly, hungrily. His hands on Harry’s head, cupping either side, Malfoy kissed him. And then he pulled away.

Hovering a foot away from Harry in the water, Malfoy searched Harry’s eyes, as though it had been a test, just an experiment to see what Harry would do. But Harry was doing the same, searching Malfoy’s eyes for answers, for clarity. Only one option presented itself.

Harry pulled Malfoy back into a kiss, sucking on his lower lip and tasting him as he’d wanted to since he saw him swimming their first day. Harry’s hands brushed through Malfoy’s wet hair, entwining his fingers in it and pulling. He kissed Malfoy desperately, needing him more than he could have expressed.

Malfoy pressed his body against Harry’s, and their erections slid together. Harry gasped, the feeling unexpected, and arched into it. Malfoy ran his tongue over Harry’s, his hands travelling down Harry’s body, tracing lines of electric sensations all over him. His fingers found their way to Harry’s cock and stroked it against Malfoy’s. Harry moaned into the kiss, one hand raking down Malfoy’s back, the other still playing in his hair.

He pulled away for a moment, taking in the sight of Harry. Both of them panting, they held that moment, together, all inhibitions shed, until Harry couldn’t anymore. He leaned back in and kissed Malfoy again, his mind having no trouble thinking on what he was doing. Malfoy’s hands gripped Harry’s arse, pulling him closer, and he released the kiss again.

“On the ledge,” he said, and Harry gave him a puzzled look. Was he telling Harry to leave? But Malfoy smiled at him. “Lean back, on the ledge.”

Harry complied after a moment, unsure of what was coming. He sat there, above Malfoy, and waited, reaching for his blond hair. Malfoy ran his hands up Harry’s legs and over his stomach and chest, pressing him down slowly until Harry lay prone, knees over the edge of the pool, his cock standing upright.

With a wolfish grin, Malfoy licked his lips and pulled the length of Harry’s shaft into his mouth. A white-hot rush of pleasure flooded Harry, a gasp and a moan escaping him.

“Merlin,” he cried as Malfoy licked the length of this cock and sucked on the head. 

He let Harry’s cock pop out of his mouth a moment to say, “Draco, actually.”

Harry laughed and descended into more moaning as Draco sucked, his hands playing with Harry’s balls. Two fingers began to trace a line down to Harry’s arse, probing slowly at the opening there, and Harry, engrossed in the heady delight of the blowjob, barely noticed. Draco pressed one finger in, stretching him slowly, but Harry winced involuntarily.

Draco pulled away from Harry’s cock, studying him a moment, and Harry looked up somewhat sheepishly. Grey eyes travelled the length of him, and he pulled Harry closer to the ledge, spreading his legs apart. He disappeared for a moment, and Harry could only see the top of his head.

“Fuck!” Harry cried when he felt the tip of Draco’s tongue at his arse, probing where his fingers had been moments earlier. Eyes wide, Harry opened his mouth to tell him not to, that it wasn’t necessary, but Draco licked and flicked his tongue, and slid it in deeper, and Harry was lost.

Draco’s hand wrapped around the base of Harry’s cock as he probed his arse with his tongue. All thoughts escaped Harry, his mind a mess of feelings and sensations and the vague awareness he’d never felt this good in his life.

“Turn over,” Draco said, reappearing between Harry’s legs, his mouth wet and red. Harry nodded and turned over, his chest flat to the smooth stone of the ledge, his legs floating in the water. His cock pressed against the stone, but Draco pulled him away enough to release the pressure. He pressed his tongue back to Harry’s hole, then slowly inserted a finger. The discomfort passed quickly, and Draco added another finger, then another, stretching Harry, and Harry moaned and pressed back onto Draco’s fingers with increasing urgency.

He hadn’t thought about it, how he wanted to be with a man, but he felt right, yearning, certain he wanted Draco to fuck him. He wanted Draco to be inside him now. No doubts lingered in his mind; all of them fled at Draco’s touch.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice husky and rough, not his own. “I want you, Draco. Now. Fuck me now.”

Draco pulled himself out of the water, suddenly above Harry. He leaned in and kissed Harry’s shoulder, his neck, sucking gently at the skin. Harry felt the head of Draco’s cock against him, much larger than his fingers, but he pressed back into it. As Draco pushed inside, his cock sliding in and filling Harry more fully than he could have imagined, Harry gripped at Draco’s hands, determined to pull him closer, to eradicate any space between them.

“Fuck, Harry,” Draco moaned, and Harry grinned into the motions as Draco plunged in, and again. The thrusting grew faster, deeper, and more desperate with every one. Pleasure built in Harry, in steady flashes and sparks—a fire caught within him.

Draco was nearly lying on top of Harry, one hand wrapped around Harry’s cock and stroking in time with every thrust, the other entwined with Harry’s, fingers laced tightly, as though they’d never let go.

Harry leaned his head back against Draco’s shoulder, pushing back onto Draco’s cock faster and faster, hungry for more and more. Blond hair cascaded down over Harry’s shoulder, tickling at his chin and neck. Draco’s lips were against Harry, his teeth raking lightly over Harry’s skin. Every touch, the thrusting head of Draco’s cock, the tips of his hair, the bite of his fingernails into Harry’s palm, set Harry on fire.

Until every pleasurable sensation crested, and Harry cried out, coming harder than he ever had. The peak of it blinded him as he rode out the wave, riding Draco. Draco thrust jerkily, unevenly, once, twice, three more times until he shuddered and came, biting into Harry’s shoulder as he did. Harry reached up and grabbed Draco’s neck, resolved to keep him close.

They both held it for what felt like hours, frozen in that position, tightly laced together and panting heavily. Until they both gave way, and Harry and Draco both slid back into the pool, weak and sated.

Floating in the mystical water, Harry felt Draco pull out, cringing at the loss. The water of the pool caressed his skin all around, soothing any discomfort or pain he hadn’t noticed. Harry turned, needing to look at Draco, to make sure it was all real, not a horrible joke.

He found Draco looking back at him with much the same expression. He seemed far away, his hair a dishevelled mess, his lips raw and red. He looked at Harry as if Harry was an illusion, some spell about to end.

Harry swam over to him and pulled him into a kiss. Their lips met without urgency or anger this time. The hunger was different, calmer, more languid. Harry breathed him in, tasted all he could, an edge of panic at the recesses of his mind. This felt like too much like a blot of ink on a page—bold but momentary.

When Harry pulled away, Draco looked almost sad. Harry dipped his hands into the water and ran a finger over Draco’s lips, healing the rawness of them, making them new to ravage again. He leaned in, but Draco pulled away, hands on Harry’s wrists.

“So what now?” he asked quietly, as though he wanted to sound cold but couldn’t manage it. “Do you feel better now you’ve had me? You’ve had what you needed to try, after all. You don’t need to be confused anymore.” He looked away from Harry, his every word expecting something—rejection.

Harry turned his head back to him, caught his eye, and smiled.

“No, no more confusion,” Harry said. “I know what I want now.” Draco’s expression set to a crafted calm. “You,” Harry said, and Draco’s eyes flashed to Harry’s. Harry laughed. “You’re mad if you think I could go back to the way things were after that. I don’t want to live in the past anymore either, Draco. I want to move forward. With you.” Draco grasped his wrist, Harry’s hand still brushing Draco’s jaw. “What about you? You were looking to find love…” He stopped himself, unable to ask the question. 

Draco smirked and leaned in. “I was,” he said. “And I’d like to explore it further.” He stopped, his lips barely brushing Harry’s. “I hear exploration is more fun in company.” His eyes flickered up to Harry’s. “Even if that company is you.”

Harry laughed. “Oh, shut it, prat.”

Smiling, Draco pulled slightly away as Harry tried to kiss him. “Make me.”

So Harry did.

**Author's Note:**

> If so inclined, comment here or at [LiveJournal](http://dracotops-harry.livejournal.com/299331.html). Comments are ♥.


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